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—It ain’t necessary for u 2 b a Pakistani to call a Pakistani a Paki, Hardjit explains,— or for u 2 call any Paki a Paki for dat matter. But u gots 2 b call’d a Paki yourself. U gots 2 b, like, an honorary Paki or someshit. An dat’s da rule. Can’t be callin someone a Paki less u also call’d a Paki, innit. So if you hear Jas, Amit, Ravi or me callin anyone a Paki, dat don’t mean u can call him one also. We b honorary Pakis n u ain’t.
—Yeh, blud, safe, goes Ravi. Don’t ask me why the white boy still looked confused. It was the exact same for black people. They could call each other nigger but even us desi bredrens couldn’t call them niggers. Or niggaz, if you spell it like that. At least that’s how NWA was spelt when their name was spelt out in full. In fact, I figured that if Niggaz With Attitude followed the usual rules a acronyms, it’d be more accurate to use a capital letter, as in Nigga or Paki. I know I should’ve fuckin known better, but I decided to share this thought with the other guys.
—Yeh, motherfucker, an even when you allowed to call someone a Paki, it be Paki wid a capital P, innit.
—Jas, u khota, Hardjit goes, swivelling round so fast his dog tags would’ve flown off someone with a thinner neck,— why da fuck u teachin him how 2 spell?
I shrugged, deeply lamenting my lack a rudeboyesque panache.
—Da gora ain’t no neo-Nazi graffiti artist n dis ain’t no fuckin English lesson, innit.
An so I shut the fuck up an let Hardjit sum up his own lesson.
—A Paki is someone who comes from Pakistan. Us bredrens who don’t come from Pakistan can still b call’d Paki by other bredrens if it means we can call dem Paki in return. But u people ain’t allow’d 2 join in, u get me?
All a this shit was just academic a course. Firstly, Hardjit’s thesis, though it was what Mr Ashwood’d call internally coherent, failed to recognise the universality a the word Nigga compared with the word Paki. De-poncified, this means many Hindus an Sikhs’d spit blood if they ever got linked to anything to do with Pakistan. Indians are just too racist to use the word Paki. Secondly, the white kid couldn’t call no one a Paki no more with his mouth all cut up. It was still bleedin in little bursts, thick gobfuls droppin onto the concrete floor like he was slowly puking up blood or someshit. It made me feel like puking up myself (the samosas an a can a Coke we got at the college canteen at break time). The blood trickled differently down his chin than down his cheeks. A closer look showed it was cos he’d got this really short goatee beard that I din’t notice before. What’s the point in havin a goatee if it’s so blond no one can even see it unless your face is covered in blood? Amit’d always said goras couldn’t ever get their facial hair right. If it weren’t too blond, it was too curly or too bumfluffy or just too gimpy-shaped. One time he said that they looked like batty boys when they’d got facial hair an baby boys when they din’t. I told him I thought he was being racist. He goes to me it was the exact same thing as sayin black guys were good at growin dreadlocks but crap at growin ponytails. Amit probly had the wikidest facial hair in the whole a Hounslow, better than Hardjit’s even. Thin heavy lines a carefully shaped, short, unstraggly black hair that from far back looked like it’d been drawn on with a felt-tip pen. Anyway, even if it was possible for a gora to have ungay facial hair, the gora in front a us now looked like he’d shaved himself with a chainsaw.
Hardjit was tellin the gora something else, but I din’t hear what. I’d zoned out during the short silence an tuned into the creaking a these mini goalposts Hardjit’d hung his Schott bomber jacket over. You could tell from the creaking that they’d rusted an were meant to be used inside the school sports hall rather than stuck out here opposite the dustbin an traffic cone that made up the other goal.
—Ansa me, you dirrty gora, Hardjit goes, before kneeling down an punchin him in the mouth so that his tongue an lower lip explode again over the library books he’d tried to use as a shield. Even if the white kid could say something stead a just gurgling an splutterin blood, he was wise enough not to.
—Dat’s right, the three a us go in boy-band mode again,— ansa da man or we bruck yo fuckin face.
—Yeh, blud, safe, goes Ravi.
We should’ve just left the white kid then an got our butts back to the car. We’d still got some other business to sort out before headin back to college that afternoon. We were also takin some serious liberties with our luck that none a the teachers’d look out the classroom windows or step into the playground to pick up litter. They’d ID us for sure if they did. Not just cos we hung round this school’s sixthform common room now an then, but also cos up till last June we were sixth-formers here ourselves. We all fuckin failed, a course, despite all our parents’ prayin an payin for private maths tuition. An so now we were down the road at Hounslow College a Higher Education, retakin our fuckin A-levels at the age a fuckin nineteen when we should’ve been at King’s College or the London School a Economics or one a the other desi unis with nice halls a residence in central London.
Teachers or no teachers, fuck it. I had to redeem myself after my gimpy remark bout spellin Paki with a capital P. After all, Ravi had spotted the white kid in the first place an Amit’d helped Hardjit pin him against the brick wall. But me, I hadn’t added anything to either the physical or verbal abuse a the gora. To make up for my useless shitness I decided to offer the followin carefully crafted comment:
—Yeh, bredren, knock his fuckin teeth out. Bruck his fuckin face. Kill his fuckin…well, his fuckin, you know, him. Kill him.
This was probly a bit over the top but I think I’d got the tone just right an nobody laughed at me. At least I managed to stop short a sayin, Kill the pig, like the kids do in that film Lord a the Flies. It’s also a book too, but I’m tryin to stop knowin shit like that.
—U hear wot ma bredren Jas b chattin? Hardjit says, welcoming my input.— If u b gettin lippy wid me u b gettin yo’self mashed up. I’ll bruck yo face n it’ll serve u right, fuckin bhanchod. Shudn’t b callin us Pakis, innit.
There weren’t much face left to bruck, a course. No way Hardjit could’ve done that damage with his bare fists. I weren’t sure whether he’d used his keys or his Karha. One time, when he sparked Imran I think, Hardjit slid his Karha down from his wrist over his fingers an used it like some badass knuckleduster. Even though he was one a them Sardarjis who don’t even wear a turban, Hardjit always wore a Karha round his wrist an something orange to show he was a Sikh. Imran’s face was so fucked up back then that we made Hardjit promise never to do that shit again. We weren’t even Sikh like him but we told him he shouldn’t use his religious stuff that way. Din’t matter that he was fightin a Muslim. Din’t matter that he was fightin a Pakistani. His mum an dad got called into school an after dinner rinsed him for being a badmarsh delinquent ruffian who’d abused his religion an his culture. Then again, Imran did call it a bangle so served him right.
My fledgling rudeboy reputation redeemed, I was now ready to get the fuck away from there. But Hardjit weren’t. He still needed to deliver his favourite line. An just like one a them chana-daal farts that take half an hour to brew, out it eventually came.
—U dissin ma mum?
The blood on the white kid’s face seemed to evaporate just to make it easier for us to see his expression a what-the-fuck? But before he could start screamin denials an protesting his innocence, Hardjit delivered his second an third favourite lines,— U cussin ma mum? an the less venacular,— U b disrespectin my mother?
The rest a us knew where all a this was headed an Amit, who’d known Hardjit since the man was happy just being called Harjit, was the best placed to challenge him.
—Come now, bredren, dat’s nuff batterings you given him. Da gora din’t cuss no one’s mum.
—Yeh, Amit, yeh he fuckin did.
—Nah, man, come now, we done good here, let’s just allow it, blud.
—Allow him to dis ma mum? Wat da fuck’s wrong wid’chyu, pehndu? U turnin into a batty boy wid all a dis let’s-make-peace-n-drink-spunk-lassi shit?
—No, I mean allow as in, u know, leave it be, blud. He din’t cuss your mum n no fuckin way he ever gonna call no one a Paki no more. Let’s just leave it, blud. Let’s just allow it n get goin wid our shit, innit.
—Da fuckin gora call’d me a Paki. He cuss’d da colour a my skin n my mama got the same colour skin as me, innit.
None a us dared argue, an Hardjit’d found a reason to kick the white kid in the face again, an again, an again, this time punctuating the rapid-fire beatin with,— U fuckin gora, u cuss’d my mum, an then adding variations like,— U cuss’d my sister n ma bredren. U cuss’d my dad, my uncle Deepak, u cuss’d my aunty Sheetal, my aunty Meera, ma cousins in Leicester, u cuss’d ma grandad in Jalandhar.
Hardjit was so fast with his moves that the white boy had hardly got time to scream before the next impact a the man’s foot, fist, elbow. Hardjit’s thuds against the gora’s body an the gora’s head against the concrete playground had a kind a rhythm bout it that you just couldn’t block out. Ravi starts cheering as if Ganguly had just scored six runs an there’d be no saving the gora’s Ben Sherman shirt now. When it was done, stead a knockin the white kid out, Hardjit straightened himself up, took his Tag Heuer out his pocket an put his keys back in it. He could’ve done the same damage even if he’d just used his bare fists. He does four different types a martial arts as well as workin every muscle group, like I said, down the gym, every other day. He says it don’t really matter how many times you go down the gym, you can’t be proper tough less you also have proper fights. It was the same with all his martial arts lessons. There weren’t no point learnin them if he din’t use them in the street or in the playground at least. His favourite martial art that time was kalaripayat, which in case you don’t know was one a the first kindsa martial arts ever to be invented. A big bonus point if you know where it was invented. China? Japan? Tibet? Fuck, no. It’s from India, innit. Chinese an Tibetan kung fu came later. People tend to forget this cos the British banned kalaripayat when they took over India. But now Hardjit’d found out bout it he wouldn’t let no one forget. He reminded the white kid never to call anyone a Paki again before we headed across the playground to the gate where Ravi’d parked the Beemer on the zigzag line. We were stridin slowly a course, so as not to look batty. With the gora gone quiet you could now hear screamin from inside the school. It was the usual voices. Four, maybe five different teachers yellin an shoutin at the usual kids for fuckin around in lessons, resulting in more laughter from the back rows followed by more shoutin from the front. From outside, the place sounded more like a mental home than a school. Lookin at where the sounds were coming from I figured no way any a the teachers would’ve spotted us through a classroom window. Even those that were clean were covered in masking tape cos they’d been broken by cricket balls. The result a special desi spin-bowling probly.
Nobody said jackshit to nobody in case it took the edge off Hardjit’s warm-up for the proper fight he’d got lined up for tomorrow. But as the four a us got to the Beemer, Ravi remembered he’d left Hardjit’s Schott bomber jacket wrapped round the goalposts in the playground.
—U fuckin gimp, was all Hardjit said. He weren’t even referring to me for a change but still I volunteered to go get his jacket, even though it meant a spectacularly gimpy fifty-metre trot to the other side a the playground. Not exactly my most greatest idea seeing as how I’d just spent the last twelve months tryin to get upgraded from my former state a dicklessness.
As I got nearer the goalposts, I watched the white kid wipe his face with his shirt. You hardly ever saw a brown-on-white beatin these days, not round these pinds anyway. It was when all those beatins stopped that Hardjit started hooking up with the Sikh boys who ran Southall whenever they took on the Muslim boys who ran Slough. Hounslow’s more a mix a Sikhs, Muslims an Hindus, you see, so the brown-on-browns tended to just be one-on-ones stead a thirty desis fightin side by side. Whenever those one-on-ones were between a Sikh an a Muslim an whenever the Sikh was Hardjit, people’d come from Southall an Slough just to watch his martial arts moves in action. If you don’t believe me, wait till the big showdown with Tariq Khan he’d got lined up for tomorrow.
The white kid was now lookin me straight in the eye in a way that made me glad we hadn’t made eye contact while he was being beaten.— What, white boy? I said.— Did you expect me to stop them? Do you think I’m some kind a fuckin fool?
—Jas, I didn’t call nobody a Paki, he said, coughin.— You know that’s the truth.
—I don’t know shit, Daniel.
—I didn’t even say nothing, Jas. Nobody would ever be so stupid as to mess with you lot any more.
I tried to ignore what he was sayin an the way sayin it had made his lips an tongue start bleedin again. But I couldn’t help noddin. Damn right.
—Why didn’t you tell them I didn’t say anything, Jas? What’s happened to you over the last year? the gora says before havin another coughin an splutterin fit.— You’ve become like one of those gangsta types you used to hate.
Damn right.
—Why didn’t you tell them I didn’t say anything?
—OK, Daniel, I go,— swear on your mother’s life you din’t call us Pakis.
—For fuck’s sake, Jas, you know my mother’s dead.
—So, swear on your mother’s life.
—But Jas, she’s dead. You came to the funeral.
I picked up the jacket, turned around an jogged back to the car. Hardjit’d been wise to take it off. He’d worn the jacket during other fights but wanted to be careful with it now cos he’d just got the word ‘Desi’ sewn onto the back. He’d thought bout havin ‘Paki’ sewn on but his mum’d never let him wear it an, anyway, nobody round here ever, ever used that word.
2 (#ulink_4f28ddd9-2de4-5bed-8fa1-9106eef82994)
Most desis had either black, blue or silver Beemers, but Ravi’s was a purply kind a metallic grey. Lilac, I think he said one time. Yeh. He said lilac was his favourite colour a ladies’ underwear an he wanted the outside a the car to match the panties pulled off inside.
—If she b wearin black thongs dey’d still match da dashboard, he’d said, stroking the BMW’s bonnet before he took us for our first ever ride in it.— But if dey b dem red panties then she a dirrty ho an I’d bounce her ass out ma car, da bitch.
Greasy sleazebag bullshit merchant or not, you had to hand it to Ravi. His BMW M3 was way phatter than other Beemers you saw round here. Most desi bredren had got the E36 model, but Ravi drove a E46. Slick side gills, wider wheel arches, curved roof an four chrome exhaust pipes stickin out from under the rear skirt. He’d stuck on an even slicker spoiler, alloy hubcaps that kept on spinnin at red traffic lights an matchin lilac windscreen wipers. The inside a the ride was pimped up with rally-car-style seat belts that criss-crossed over your chest, chrome plating over the gearstick an handbrake handles, Sony X-Plod three-way speakers with 220 watts a power an sand-coloured seats that looked lush even though they weren’t leather. He’d even got those neon lights fitted under the chassis that lit up the road underneath. But whereas most rudeboys’d got blue neon lights, Ravi’s were purple to match the car. Purple weren’t an exact match, a course, but he couldn’t find lilac neon lights an only people in Prince videos wore purple panties.
—Where we meetin Davinder? Ravi goes, tryin to shout down the DMX CD being turned up by his left hand an the engine being revved up by his right foot.— You hear me, blud? Where we meetin Davinder?
—I already told u, u thick khota: outside Nando’s, innit, goes Hardjit, though without needin to shout cos Ravi eased off with his hand an foot for him.— I also told’chyu we had 2 call Davinder b4 we left dis place, innit, so any a u chiefs know his mobile?
—Yeh, he got one a them new Sony Ericsson P800s, innit, came my voice from the back seat, all jumpy like when I used to sit up front in History lessons an knew the answer to Mr Ashwood’s questions.— It’s a wikid fone, man, it got a camera, it got a video player, it got them polyphonic ringtunes, an Java games.
—Jas, u pehndu. I meant his mobile numba. I’s gonna fuckin fone him, innit. Fuckin dickless piece a shit.
—Ah, sorry, man, my bad, I go as I start searchin my fone for Davinder’s number.
—Ras clat, fuckin useless, all a u, Hardjit goes, shakin his head an doing that suckin the inside a his front teeth thing. Hardjit could suck his front teeth louder, longer an harder than most people could. I in’t lyin, the man could tut like a black brother.
—Davinder got a lesson on Monday so he probly got his fone on silent, goes Amit.— Dem bhanchod teachers make you turn your fone off now. Stick it in your bag or sumfink so you can’t even flex it on your desk.
—Amit, I don’t give a fuck whether his fone’s on silent or stuck up his butt n set 2 vibrate, Davinder told me 2 call him when we left da school n we b leavin da fuckin school, innit. So c’mon, u bunch a chiefs. One a u’s gotta b havin his numba.
Amit dialled Davinder’s number from his Nokia fone book an passed his fone up front to Hardjit, all in a single, smooth move, like a cricket fielder scooping up an throwin the ball in one go.
—Shut da fuck up, dis b business, Hardjit goes to all a us as, somewhere near Hounslow High Street, Davinder’s fone started ringin, or vibrating, or flashin, or whatever the fuck he’d set it to.
—Kiddaan, man, ‘sup, homeboy?… Listen, blud, we jus leavin now, innit… Some gora got lippy wid us… Nah, u know it, blud …He ain’t got no lips no more, bhanchod… U know it, blud, innit …A’ight, safe… Nah, I call her tonite… I got me free minutes on my fone, innit…Say wat?…Nando’s. Safe. Nah, we’ll hook up wid’chyu dere… We leavin da school right now… We got da Beemer, innit …A’ight, safe, laters.
Soon as Hardjit hangs up, Amit takes his Nokia 6610 back an starts makin a call beside me. He’s being all polite an in’t using no swear words or nothin so is clearly chattin to his mum. But he makes sure he don’t look like he’s chattin to his mum, narrowin his eyes, suckin in his cheeks an noddin as he stares out the window. Amit pulled a better fone face than all a us. Tellin some stockbroker or banker to liquidate his portfolio a stocks an, no, he din’t give a damn how bad the market is today: just fuckin sell.
—Theekh hai, he goes.— Flour an eggs. Free range. I’ll get it, Mama. Alright, Mum, theekh hai.
—I ain’t squashin u back there, is it? Hardjit goes to me, his seat pushed all the way back so I was gettin, like, kneecapped.
—Nah, man, I’m cool, I go.— Move the seat further back if you need to. I’m cool.
When you’re in the back seat a some pimped-up Beemer it’s basically your job to be cool. To just chill, listen to the tunes an stare out the window like some big dumb dog with a big slobbery tongue. DMX pumpin so loud out the sound system you can hardly hear what the other guys’re sayin up front. Amit shuffles into the middle a the back seat, leaning forward into that death-if-you-don’t-wear-a-seat-belt position my mum was always going on at me bout. But I just stay sittin back. The world going by outside the window tells me that in the olden times, before the airport, Hounslow must’ve been one a them batty towns where people ponced around on cycles stead a drivin cars. Why else we got such narrow roads? Some a them were so narrow that the trees on each side had got their branches castrated to stop them fightin in the middle. In’t no leaves on em either, even in the summer. Talk bout a shitty deal for the trees. Castrated an no pubes. Standin there like giant, upright versions a the dried-up sticks a dogshit that lay at their feet. If I was a cycleriding, tree-huggin, skint hippie I might’ve given a shit bout the trees an all the posters pinned to them for some Bollywood film that’d been released two weeks ago, the new Punjabi MC single that came out a month ago or ads for a bhangra gig in Hammersmith that happened a year ago. But I in’t, so stead I hope the skint people who work for the local council would just finish the fuckin job an chop em all down. Make room for more billboards, more fuckin road. Only proper-sized roads round here were the Great West Road an London Road, both a them runnin along either side a this part a Hounslow like garden fences to an airport at the back where the garden shed should be (they called it Heathrow cos it’s bang in the middle a Hounslow Heath or someshit). Lucky for us there weren’t no other cars cruisin down all these side roa ds squashed between the garden fences. There were hardly any parked cars along the pavements either, partly cos the staff car parks at Heathrow were full but mostly cos all a the houses round here had got their front gardens concreted over an turned into driveways. Big wheelie rubbish bins an recycling boxes where the plants, flower beds an garden paths between them used to be. No sign a the other stuff I drew on houses when my playschool teacher moved me up from crayons to colouring-in pencils. None a them smokin chimneys an those lollipop-like trees were missin too. Missin, presumed castrated. Some houses had got Om symbols stuck on the wooden front doors behind glass porches, some a them had Khanda Sahibs an others had the Muslim crescent moon. All a them had satellite TV dishes next to the main bedroom window, stuck up there like framed dentists’ diploma certificates. If there weren’t no symbol on the front door, you could still tell if it was a desi house if there was more than one satellite dish. One for Zee TV an one for Star Plus, probly. You could tell if someone was home cos the daal an subjhi smell would mix in with the airport traffic on the Great West Road. An you could tell if the people at home were friendly if the car parked in the driveway was a car with a friendly face. I in’t jokin. That kid in The Sixth Sense, he sees dead people all the time - me, I see faces in cars. Maybe this makes me some mad weirdo psycho, but I been seein them ever since I was little. It’s like as if the headlights are the eyes, the grille the mouth an the wing mirrors the ears. The faces meant that, back before I got tight with Hardjit’s crew, I tended to like smaller cars. Ford Fiestas, Fiat Puntos an all the other crappy hatchbacks my schoolteachers drove. I din’t like them in a skint hippie way, though, I liked them cos they’d got friendlier faces. Take this red Nissan Micra that just pulled out behind us. It looked like a little, button-nosed puppy dog. The black Volkswagen Beetle parked in a drive on the left had got big friendly eyes. This was why, back when I was a gimp, I never got why everyone reckoned big flash cars were such big fuckin deals. Sure, flashy Mercedes were smiling cos a their massive grilles, but their faces weren’t friendly cos it was more like some smug grin: I’m a fuckin SLK, look at me, you pleb. Aston Martins got mouths like piranha fish, Beemers looked like androids playin fuckin poker an Italian sports cars were even scarier cos they’d got no mouths, no eyes even. I dig sports cars now a course, cos my head in’t so stupidly fucked up these days an I try an not see the faces no more. Matter a fact it’s the bodies I tend to notice now. Take the body on a Lexus SC430. So sleek an smooth you don’t even notice its face. Like Christina Aguilera. The curves on an Audi TT make it J-Lo while the Porsche 911 GTS got a booty like Beyoncé. An it in’t just divas: I got the Bentley Continental GT down as Snoop Dogg an the Hummer H2 down as 50 Cent.
If Ferrari made a 4x4 SUV, it’d be a Hardjit. A Hardjit SUV would have a big engine grille but it wouldn’t be grinnin. It’d be more like that constipated face he makes when he’s tensing his body an thinks no one else in the gym is watchin him. When I turned my head back from the window to see if anything was going on up front he was still settling into his seat, winding down the tinted electric window, resting his elbow on the door frame, flashin his Tag Heuer, sovereign ring an Karha bracelet. Grabbin the top a the door frame with his left hand, he straightened his shoulder so that his upper arm snapped into place, his tight black D&G vest givin everyone outside an even better view. An just like the empty side roads gave Ravi an excuse to slide down into second gear an do some seriously sharp rudeboy manoeuvres, they gave Hardjit an excuse to grip harder on the door frame an tense his arms up more. The engine an drivetrain connected to his biceps, the brake pads connected to his pecs. Ravi swervin past some random slowcoach Citroën like he was at the arcades playin Daytona USA. Beep beep, get the fuck off the street. Pump pump, we don’t slow for no fuckin speed hump. Luckily, Hardjit din’t notice me watchin him feel his biceps. Otherwise he’d have rinsed me for being gay or a gora lover, or both. I’d caught him enough times feelin his arms an just generally checkin himself out in mirrors an tinted car windows an somehow he always made me feel like I was the batty boy. Right now he only stopped checkin out his arms when he found some other limbs to check out. Her legs had come into view soon as we’d turned out the side roads an onto the London Road. Whoever she was, she was wearin one a them fuck-me miniskirts an fuck-me-harder knee-high boots. The skirt beige, the boots black. Ravi slowed the fuck down now while Hardjit turned up DMX’s ‘Ruff Ryders Anthem ’ with the arm that weren’t on display in the door frame. Soon as we’d passed her legs, Amit gives it,— Dat gyal ain’t nothin, if yous lot wanna see proper fitness you shoulda seen dis bitch I shagged last weekend. Harpinder was her name. Imagine if Aishwarya Rai n Shilpa Shetty had a twenty-one-year-old love child.
—Yeh, I bet ‘imagine’ is the right word seein as how you probly imagined the whole thing yourself, I shouted from the back seat before I could even remember that I was in the back seat.
—Fuck you, Jas, goes Amit.— Jus cos you in’t shagged no one. No one female anyway. An even if you did, da Durex’d probly slip off your pin-sized prick n you’d end up wid butt-ugly kids cos dey’ll have your genes.
When everyone’s finished crackin up, Amit carries on:— Whereas me, if I had a kid wid dis bitch from last week, it’d b better-lookin than Pharrell, innit. Only there ain’t gonna b no kid cos I used protection, innit. Extra large a course, none a dat average-sized shit you get outta da machines. Matter a fact, da size I need is so large I gots to go to a special chemist, you get me.
—Safe, bredren, goes Ravi.— Extra large, innit.
—Yeh, bruv, if I din’t use a rubber, she’d probly have twins or triplets or four babies altogether or someshit.
—Yeh, you know it blud.
—I din’t even need to chirps her very long. Couple a jokes, dat’s all. She weren’t easy or nothin, she jus took one look at me n decided we was gonna get in my car, you get me.
—Safe, blud, Ravi gives it again.— Wat’s her friends like? I’ll bone em.
—Too late, bruv, I already shagged her best friend Mandeep last year. She was all over me. Kept textin me afta, leavin voicemails n dat.
—Wikid, man, you b da dog. Da dirrty dawg.
—Yeh you know it, Ravi. Back when I boned Mandeep I was jus using a large size. Now I need extra large, you get me?
—A’ight, blud, jumbo size, innit. Dat’s da way. Shag her, innit, Ravi gives it before Hardjit finally cuts in with:— Yeh n I had a nice dream myself last nite.
—So wat’chyu sayin, desi? goes Amit.— You bein like Jas here n thinkin I makin dis shit up?
—Nah, blud, I sayin I know u makin dis shit up.
—Fuck you, man. You think you da only one who’s been there, done dat, shagged dat bitch, done dat ho?
—No. I ain’t sayin dat cos I don’t get wid no bitches n hos.
The two a them carried on like that till we pulled up at a set a red traffic lights. This desi who pulled up in the lane next to us din’t even look our way once even though we were givin enuff stares at him an his silver Peugeot 305. You could tell from his long hair, grungy clothes, the poncey novel an newspaper on his dashboard an Coldplay album playin in his car that he was a muthafuckin coconut. So white he was inside his brown skin, he probably talked like those gorafied desis who read the news on TV. Probably even more poncier than the way how I used to talk. An think. Probly.
—U boys see how scared a us dat Paki is? Hardjit shouted over DMX so that the coconut heard him too.— Yah, u Mr Muthafucka, I mean u. I ain’t seein any otha Pakis round here, do u?
Still the coconut was too wise to bite, just carryin on lookin straight ahead.
—Tu ki samajda hai? U a Paki jus like me. Even tho u b listenin to U2 or someshit. Are u 2 scared 2 look at us?
The coconut pretty much answered this question by keepin his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Hardjit then tutted at regular intervals till the lights changed. We let the coconut drive ahead a us, cut into our lane an then turn right towards the Great West Road.
—Ain’t dat some muthafuckin coincidence, goes Hardjit.— We goin dat way too.
The Great West Road, which is basically the stretch a the A4 that runs along Hounslow, is a dual carriageway. It’s got three lanes in each direction so Ravi had no problem pullin up alongside the coconut the next time we got lucky with a red light.
—Oi, mate, Hardjit gives it, pointing at the coconut’s car door as if something was wrong with it.
This time, the coconut bit the bait, openin his door a little an then slammin it shut. Then the khota wound down his window.— Thanks, he goes,— I must’ve got my seat belt caught in it. Thanks again, mate.
Fool.
—No, Mr Matey, your door was shut just splendidly fine, old boy, Hardjit gives it in his best poncey Angrez accent.— I weren’t fuckin pointing at yo fuckin door, u bhanchod. I was pointing at yo fuckin car, innit. I mean, look at it.
—I’m sorry, mate? I don’t understand.
—Your car. Ain’t u noticed? It’s crap. Your car’s a piece a crappedup shit, innit.
—Well, it gets me from A to B, the coconut goes before winding up his window. Fool. Fool fool fool. In’t no point winding your window up now, not unless it’s soundproof or double-glazed or someshit.
—A to B? Hardjit shouted.— Fuckin batty boy, u sound like a poncey gora. Wat’s wrong wid’chyu, sala kutta? U 2 embarrass’d to b a desi? Embarrass’d a your own culture, huh? Thing is, u is actually an embarrassment to desis. Bet’chyu can’t even speak yo mother tongue, innit. I should come over there n cut yo tongue out, u dickless bhanchod. Then Hardjit started tuttin like he was in some fuckin teeth-suckin competition, before givin it,— Look at me when I talk 2 u. Ain’t nobody mess wid us. Fuckin R.E.M. playin on yo stereo. Ras clat pehndu. Tell him, Amit.
—Bhanchod coconut, Amit goes after openin his window.— Ain’t your own culture good enuf for you, you fuckin gora lover? Amit felt as passionate bout healin coconuts as Hardjit felt bout healin rednecks who used the word Paki an Ravi felt bout healin lesbians. —Wat da fuck happened wid’chyu you gots to act like a gora for? You think you better than your own kind cos you is so white n you read some poncey books n newspapers? I wipe ma ass wid yo fuckin newspaper.
